


padded leghold trap

by youcouldmakealife



Series: if all is enough [11]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4620114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When was the last time someone had toiletries at your apartment?” Marc asks rhetorically. He knows the answer. “Feeling like a failure?”</p><p>“Mostly just tired,” Ulf says honestly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	padded leghold trap

They make it to game seven. Half of them act like it was a foregone conclusion, but it was a tight race the entire way, loss in game five, win in game six. One bounce different and it would have ended the season. The room’s electric after game six, though, jokes and giddy laughter and Wilson trying to get Garza to dance with him, and Ulf watches it with the fondness of someone who knows it’s something he’s not going to have again. 

Everyone scatters soon enough, though, off to get a good night’s sleep or hug their kids or other low-impact celebration they’re allowed before they fly out to Tampa for game seven. Ulf tips his chin at Rousseau, and Rousseau nods, short. They meet up in the parking garage by Rousseau’s car.

“Nice game,” Ulf says. It was. It was tighter on the ice than it was on the scoreboard, but it was a pretty convincing win to pump up the home crowd and rip any momentum from the Bolts. 

“Still got another,” Rousseau says. Staving off elimination isn’t enough to get him to celebrate, evidently. Ulf wonders if getting to the second round would, or if he’d need to see his name etched on the Cup again for that.

“Coming over?” Ulf asks, and Rousseau nods, unlocks the passenger door for him, which Ulf is getting better at scrambling up into without putting weight on his ankle. The SUV looks ridiculous in the city, but Ulf’s done the commute to practice during winter in cars that are pretty but utterly useless once there’s ice on the roads, and it’s hardly surprising that Rousseau’s practical about this sort of thing. Maybe he has a fleet of pretty, glossy, expensive cars sitting in his garage, but Ulf doubts it.

When they get to Ulf’s place Rousseau retrieves a suit bag from the backseat, follows him up, accepts a drink with tired, distracted grace, closer to natural than his typical stilted off the ice manner. 

“What’re you up to when the season’s over?” Ulf asks. His mother’s been on him since he was injured, though she knows from experience he’s sticking around until the team’s out. Cutting and running just because he can’t personally play is the most selfish thing he can imagine. It’s still his team, even though he likely won’t be back. He’s been with them for years, and the last time he felt a loyalty to a team this strongly was the year the Leafs won the Cup.

Rousseau frown as if Ulf’s jinxing them just by mentioning an end, but whether they’re knocked out in Tampa or they win the Cup, either way the season’s going to come to an end. 

“Going to Winnipeg,” Rousseau says. “Family.”

“I thought you didn’t have family in Winnipeg,” Ulf says.

Rousseau gives him a look like he has no idea why Ulf remembers this, but since he doesn’t volunteer a lot of information, it’s not exactly difficult to keep that information straight. 

“I’m visiting my sister,” Rousseau says.

“What’s her name?” Ulf asks.

Rousseau visibly hesitates, and that’s just typical. It’s not easy to piss Ulf off, but this pisses him off, the idea that Rousseau can fuck him for months, that he brings a goddamn change of clothes but doesn’t feel like he can even share his sister’s name. It’s not like Ulf asked for his medical history or a series of the worst moments in his life: Ulf asked a simple question out of idle curiosity and politeness’ sake, and Rousseau went skittish like a kicked dog, which happens far more than it should.

“Dana,” Rousseau says finally.

“Okay,” Ulf says. He doesn’t say, ‘wasn’t that easy?’, because he’s pissed, not petty.

“My mother liked The X-Files,” Rousseau says, unprompted, which is a little like a peace offering, but also a little late. 

“I can count the things I know about you on one hand,” Ulf says. 

“I told you it’s on the internet,” Rousseau says, almost sullenly.

Ulf knows how hard that shit is, he does. It may not be first hand knowledge, but he was there when Marc and Dan were outed, when media opinion on Marc soured, was there for Marc during all of it. It’s toxic, and Marc’s a far more resilient object of that sort of scrutiny, can roll with the punches and throw back his own. When he’s misrepresented he gets angry instead of hurt. Ulf wonders how much of who Rousseau is now is based on the scrutiny he was under in his twenties.

It isn’t an excuse.

“Excuse me if I think googling a guy I’m fucking is inappropriate,” Ulf says. 

Maybe someone else could tease things out of him, gentle prodding until he spilled whatever arbitrary things he holds to his chest like secrets. Maybe someone else could, but Ulf doesn’t have the patience. He’s never been a patient person, not really, believes in instant gratification everywhere in his life with the exceptions of his career and art because the two of them take all the patience he can muster. He doesn’t have any left. He may have, in his early twenties with bruised feelings and an idle thought of fixing someone, but at this point, the only people he’s willing to expend that sort of effort for are people he already loves, who’ve been fixtures in his life. 

For Marc he’d put up with this shit, and has. Not caginess, there’s no one who would ever accuse Marc of that, but the kind of conversations that take energy, that leave him drained. With Rousseau it barely is a conversation, which is probably why it feels that way, pulling teeth every time he wants anything more than a monosyllabic answer. It makes him tired.

“You want to go to bed?” Ulf asks.

Rousseau hesitates. Ulf doesn’t know if he thinks it’s a euphemism and is uncomfortable with Ulf verbalizing it, or thinks it’s in earnest and is balking at the idea of sharing a bed with Ulf without sex first. Honestly, he doesn’t much care, right now.

“I’m going to bed,” Ulf says. Rousseau can do whatever the fuck he wants. 

Ulf falls asleep alone, and honestly expects to wake that way, but the next morning Rousseau’s sacked out next to him on his belly, face slack, half hidden in his pillow. He looks young, a little soft, and the anger recedes in the face of it, just flickering at the edges, but Ulf knows that once Rousseau gets up, puts himself back into perfect order, it’s going to return. 

Ulf goes to the bathroom, and beside his electric toothbrush is a cheap red one Ulf got from the dentist and lent Rousseau the first night he stayed over. Stationed to the right is aftershave he doesn’t use, hair gel, more recent, and Ulf amused himself when they arrived thinking of Rousseau hastily shaving and slapping aftershave on in the car the next morning, using the rearview mirror to get his hair right, all so he could show up with his armor intact. 

The anger doesn’t come back, but he’s left feeling disquieted, and that doesn’t go away when Rousseau’s up, moving around him in the bathroom, when Ulf’s making them breakfast. It just settles low in his stomach, curls up like it plans to stay. 

*

They win game seven in Tampa. The boys, and Ulf does mean the boys, all want to go out, tear up the town, but they have an early flight out the next morning, and, more importantly, they’re in hostile territory. They look like they’re going to push it, but Garza shuts it down.

“Show some good sportsmanship,” Garza says. “You think anyone’s going to be happy to see us tonight? Tomorrow we’ll go out, you can bring your girlfriends or your buddies or whatever, but this is a long road, and I need your fucking heads to stay in the game.”

That settles it more effectively than Ulf might have expected -- at the very least, there are no stories about brawls in Tampa night clubs the next morning, so he suspects they went to bed like good boys, or at least kept the festivities limited to the mini bar.

Garza’s as good as his word, and sends out a mass text the next afternoon informing them that he’d talked to the proprietor of one of the bars they frequent and gotten a thumbs up. 

Travis and his assistants are there when Ulf shows up an hour past the time Garza suggested, along with the entire roster, including some of the family guys and homebodies that generally don’t make it out. They’re tired, a little battered, but if they make it past the next round it’s only going to be worse, and exponentially worse the third, and the final, so this is probably the last chance for a wholesale celebration unless they take the Cup. The presence of management -- and their GM’s there too, smart of Garza -- means it’ll stay somewhat tame, as does the presence of significant others, so no one should be too messed up tomorrow when they look toward their next opponent, who’s getting decided tonight in a game between Pittsburgh and Boston.

Ulf makes his way around gingerly, having shucked the crutches early, and it’s busy enough there are some near misses, but he finally reaches the bar, and the girl beside him must have noticed him limp over, because she offers him her seat.

“Really, it’s fine,” he says. “I can stand.”

“That’s my pitcher,” she says, gesturing at the bartender. “Don’t worry about it.”

Ulf shoots her a grin that she returns, but her comment was in earnest, since she disappears with the pitcher. Ulf orders a beer, tries not to lean on the bar, which is sticky, even at this point in the night. He hopes the rookies haven’t started on shots when management’s still around.

It’s a big place, and despite the sizeable Rangers and Rangers adjacent crowd, there are still plenty of others, some who seem to recognize the group and are trying to do a subtle infiltration, many who don’t. It’s a Thursday night, lower key than the weekend but still busy, and there’s no lack of good options, one who’s serendipitously sitting next to him, nursing something dark and watching the Penguins-Bruins game. 

“Haven’t seen you here before,” Ulf says. It’s a cliche, but generally if you accompany a cliche with a self-deprecating grin it works just fine. 

The guy’s name is Callum, and he’s Canadian of all things.

“Here for business?” Ulf asks.

“Yeah,” Callum says. “But I’ve got to admit I watched the game last night. Congrats.”

“How’d I do?” Ulf asks.

“I don’t know,” Callum says. “Don’t think they show the players who aren’t on the ice.”

Ulf laughs.

“I pass the test?” Callum says.

“You did alright,” Ulf says. Alright enough for Ulf to take him home. 

Maybe Ulf is both pissed _and_ petty, but the idea of something uncomplicated appeals to him. No terse silences, no looming specter of games won or lost, just mutual pleasure. Doesn’t seem much to ask for, honestly. 

Callum’s friendly enough, here from Newfoundland, and a Habs fan, which means he’s cheering for the Bruins to lose more than he’s cheering for Pittsburgh to win. It’s a tie at the end of the third when there’s a burst of noise at the table that the Rangers have made their base of operations, and a small cluster of them congregating near the door. “Ulfy,” Wilson calls, and Ulf winces but raises an eyebrow, and Wilson gestures him over. 

“Give me a sec,” Ulf says. “I think the guys are heading out.”

“You sticking around?” Callum asks. “Game’s not over.”

“Depends,” Ulf says.

“You should stick around,” Callum says. 

Ulf walks over to the table, and sure enough, there’s a waitress taking credit cards while some of the guys argue over who’s paying what.

“What’s up?” Ulf asks.

“Club?” Wilson says. “Some of us are going.”

“And some of us are going home and getting sleep because playoffs are a marathon and not a sprint,” Garza says mildly.

Rousseau’s still there, surprisingly, at the edges, maybe, but there. He gives Ulf a look like, “C’mon then,” one Ulf’s figured out through practice, that means no one would notice if they went home together, but the night is young, he’s got no games on his horizon, and Callum’s cute in a slightly out of his depth way.

“You guys go ahead,” Ulf says. “I’ll stick around.”

“C’mon, you don’t even play and you manage to pick up?” Wilson asks.

“What, you want to pick up dudes, now?” Anderson asks, clearly not comfortable until he’s said his piece on every minority he encounters. Maybe New York isn’t the best place for a kid like that. 

Rousseau’s looking at him, but Ulf isn’t particularly interested in seeing what’s on his face. Nothing, most likely, a bland poker face. He can fill in the blanks, so it isn’t worth the glance.

Despite Callum’s professed interest in the game, and the fact it may directly impact the Rangers, hate-watching isn’t enough to keep them there, and they’re getting in a cab before first overtime’s over. Callum’s in and out, literally, before it gets late, claiming an early meeting, which is plausible enough, and frankly Ulf’s relieved for the early night, the empty bed. He wakes up the next morning to a text sent at six, _can u bring my bag to the airport on tuesday_ , unpunctuated, innocuous, and completely, undeniably, final.

He doesn’t know how to feel about it. _Skype?_ he sends Marc, because Marc never has any issue telling Ulf how he’s feeling, an annoying habit made more annoying by the fact he’s typically right.

“You have a look on your face. What did you do?” Marc asks in greeting.

“Congratulations on making it to the second round, Ulf,” Ulf says.

“Yes, congratulations on making the second round, Marc, glad I’m facing the Penguins instead of you,” Marc parrots, which is fair, and also a confirmation of the final score. “Now that we have all been congratulated -- ”

“Okay, I would just like to point out I am not actually in a fucking relationship with him,” Ulf says.

“Does he assume otherwise?” Marc asks.

“ _You_ assume otherwise,” Ulf says.

“I really do not,” Marc says. “I am merely concerned that you have been fucking your superior for months.” _And the last time you fucked someone over an extended period of time you fell in love with my husband_ thankfully goes unsaid. 

“Probably done,” Ulf says with a loose shrug.

Marc narrows his eyes at him. “Explain,” he says, and Ulf sketches it briefly. 

“You are aware that you have to work with him next season,” Marc says.

“Let’s be real,” Ulf says. “No I don’t.”

Marc sighs more dramatically than the comment warrants.

“Honestly, this officially merits the status of the most idiotic, self-destructive thing you have ever done,” Marc says.

“Filip,” Ulf says immediately.

“Yes, but you did not know that was idiotic and self-destructive,” Marc says.

“Which…makes it better?” Ulf asks.

“It makes it less self-destructive and more idiotic, I suppose,” Marc says thoughtfully. “The fuck are you doing?”

Ulf shrugs a shoulder.

“You like him,” Marc says, finally, as if he’s had some moment of realization.

“I like everyone,” Ulf says.

“One, not true,” Marc says. “Two, I take it back, this is the most idiotic.”

“But _Filip_ ,” Ulf counters. Marc’s been holding that over his head for close to a decade, with fairly good reason, Ulf supposes. Idiotic and self-destructive, sure, but in the end it was cruel, and that was a line he wasn’t comfortable crossing, intentional or not. 

“Filip did not hurt you,” Marc says.

“I nearly burnt down my career,” Ulf says. “And what the fuck do you mean, ‘hurt me’?”

Marc’s quiet. 

“Shut up,” Ulf says.

Marc doesn’t say a thing. It is, in fact, worse than if he was gloating. 

“Aren’t you going to give my ‘I told you so’?” Ulf asks. “You’re bad for idealists, Ulf, idealists are bad for you, _I told you so_.”

“It is less fun when you are waiting for it,” Marc says.

Ulf tests a theory. “What’s ‘I told you so’ in Swedish?” he asks.

“Vad var det jag sa,” Marc says easily.

Ulf can’t help the laugh. “You don’t even have a Swede on your roster this year,” he says.

“I had Dan ask Olsen,” Marc says. “Just to be prepared.”

“How do you know Olsen told the truth?” Ulf asks.

“Olsen is an honourable opponent,” Marc says. “Also I looked it up online after to confirm.”

“Only you,” Ulf says.

“You like him,” Marc repeats.

“I’m too old for all that baggage,” Ulf says.

“Ten years ago you said you were too young for ‘all that baggage’,” Marc says.

“I was,” Ulf says.

“Here is a theory,” Marc says.

“Well shit,” Ulf says. “Marc Lapointe has a theory.”

“Here is a theory,” Marc repeats, practically talking over him. “You are never going to be willing to deal with ‘baggage’, and you never have been.”

“You have plenty,” Ulf mutters.

“I do not,” Marc says mildly, “and I am not trying to insult you. It is not necessarily a _bad_ thing.”

“Stay tuned for more news about the heartless Swede at ten,” Ulf says.

“Stop it,” Marc says. “It is not as though you lead people on. Perhaps the idea of a romantic relationship — ”

“Don’t start labeling me,” Ulf says. “You know I hate it.”

“Perhaps you are just not equipped for a romantic relationship,” Marc says.

“Wow,” Ulf says. “That’s fucking bleak, Lapointe.”

“You are willfully misunderstanding me,” Marc says, frustrated, and he’s not wrong, exactly, because Ulf really does loathe it when Marc starts trying to put him in a neat box because finding a label for his sexuality was the ‘first step’, and he thinks he’s sharing the joy. “Do you want a relationship?”

“No?” Ulf says.

“Then why is it a failure when you cannot maintain one?” Marc asks.

Ulf’s quiet. “Who said I consider it a failure?” Ulf asks. “And no one ever called it a relationship.”

“When was the last time someone had toiletries at your apartment?” Marc asks rhetorically. He knows the answer. “Feeling like a failure?”

“Mostly just tired,” Ulf says honestly.

“Playoffs,” Marc says. “With a baby.”

“Yes, Marc, you win the tired contest,” Ulf says. “Your prize is more exhaustion.”

Marc gives him the finger. “Just think about it,” he says.

“I’ve already forgotten it,” Ulf says. In the meantime, he has toiletries to gather, a suit in his closet, a light coat that isn’t his. It doesn’t all fit in the bag, but he figures out how to most efficiently pack it. It’d be too obvious to walk up to Rousseau and hand him a suitcase.

Ulf presses his fingers against his temple, tries to stave off the start of a headache. Callum left his number, and he hadn’t been half bad, so Ulf texts him to see if he’s in town long enough for a repeat, puts the bag he packed in the closet so he stops looking at it, and prepares for a playoff series he won’t even take the ice for.

It’s already forgotten.


End file.
